


'Till the Gravity's Too Much

by benjji2795



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew learns to be soft, M/M, this is mostly self indulgent fluff, while Neil is shocked and pleasantly surprised by this development
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjji2795/pseuds/benjji2795
Summary: Alternatively Titled: How Andrew Gradually Learns to be Soft





	'Till the Gravity's Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> *me, nervously wringing my hands* so anyway I read _All For the Game_ in basically one day two weeks ago and I started working on this like the next day (I would've started the same day, but I was up until 2:30 AM so technically it already _was_ the next day). Basically, I was like, with enough time, I bet you Andrew would learn how to be softer, so I just took the idea and ran with it.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy it! :)
> 
> Shoutout to [empresscatherinethefirst](http://empresscatherinethefirst.tumblr.com) for reading through this first and also for just being an awesome and encouraging friend <3
> 
> I do have a trigger warning to give y'all, so check the A/N at the end!
> 
> Title from _Treacherous_ by Taylor Swift.

Andrew’s softening toward Neil is a slow and gradual thing. When it starts, Neil is shocked and surprised. He never asked for Andrew to soften up, never even implied that he expected such a thing from him. Somewhere in Neil’s mind, buried deep below the surface—so deep as to nearly be subconscious—there were daydreams, little tiny hopes that Neil didn’t want to acknowledge or give voice to, because he would never want to latch onto or dream of something Andrew would never be capable of giving him.

 

But apparently Andrew is capable of giving him those things, even if he does it with his trademark indifference, and at a snail’s pace.

* * *

 

It starts with, as it seems most of the significant milestones in their _this_ has, with a kiss. Neil wakes up that morning, the spot on the bed next to him empty, but still warm. Andrew is already up, but probably not for very long.

 

Neil slides out of bed, grabbing the nearest pair of sweatpants on the floor (they could be his, they could be Andrew’s—neither of them cares to pay much attention to whose is whose anymore) and pulls them on before he pads sleepily into the kitchen. Most any other day, he’d continue on to pull on his shoes and go for a run, but they’re at the house in Columbia, taking advantage of a couple weeks off to just be alone, and Neil is soaking up every minute of it.

 

Andrew is leaning casually up against the counter, waiting for the pot of coffee to finish brewing. He looks good, morning sunlight glinting off his blond hair. If Neil could, he’d stop here and just watch, drinking up every bit of this moment, but Andrew turns and looks at him, a silent admonishment of _staring_ in his expression. Neil grins sheepishly, which somehow manages to make Andrew look even more annoyed.

 

Andrew pushes off from the counter, pacing over to Neil and pressing him up against the wall behind him. At first, nothing about the action is unusual or out of place. Depending on how Andrew is feeling on any given day, that’s how he normally greets Neil first thing in the morning, by pressing him up against the nearest wall and pulling him into a bruising, dizzying kiss.

 

Something about this morning is different though, because once Andrew brackets Neil’s head between his arms, he pauses. It’s not a hesitation, as if he’s unsure if Neil is okay with this, because Neil would’ve already voiced his objection.

 

Instead Andrew meets his eyes, and doesn’t say a word. If Neil didn’t know Andrew as well as he does, it would almost look like Andrew had gotten bored halfway to Neil’s lips and changed his mind. But that’s not what this is. There’s something new, something foreign to Neil in Andrew’s eyes as they slowly scan his face.

 

Part of Neil wants to open his mouth, to return the favor and call Andrew out for his staring, but his common sense kicks in at the last moment, warning him that Andrew will pull away the second Neil does anything to break the spell. Besides, the air feels too thick, something heavy suspended between them, making breath (and also, therefore, speech) impossible.

 

Just when Neil feels like he can’t stand the tension any longer, Andrew leans forward to kiss him. Neil can’t hold back the muffled noise of surprise when Andrew’s lips press to his and are anything but rough. It’s a soft, chaste kiss, and they don’t do soft and chaste anything. They do harsh, they do desperate, as if every kiss might be their last (and at times, early in their _this_ , it felt like that might have been true). They do kisses of desire and lust, not tenderness and—Neil might even dare to say _contentment_.

 

Andrew’s kisses are slow and syrupy, and even so Neil finds himself struggling to keep up, a combination of shock and awe rendering his lips sluggish to respond. Hours later, or possibly minutes, and maybe even mere seconds, Andrew pulls away. His expression is barely changed, save for his slightly red and swollen lips, and the glint in his eye that Neil, if he were feeling brave, might label as something close to affectionate.

 

Andrew turns, walking back to the coffee pot and pouring two mugs. He takes one and presses it into Neil’s hands. Then he leaves the kitchen wordlessly, leaving Neil slumped up against the wall, breathless and dazed.

* * *

 

Neil doesn’t get another glimpse of Andrew’s softer side until shortly after summer practices start. It was a stressful week, as the new freshmen have upset the delicate balance the ten returning players managed find during their run to the championship. It’s not that this wasn’t an unexpected development, but none of them were prepared for how unruly and difficult the new freshmen would be. After Friday evening practice, Andrew had dragged them all to the Maserati and insisted they were going to Columbia. No one had wanted to argue, because they all wanted a break from the new kids.

 

Neil allows himself to have a few drinks. Not many, because he still doesn’t like to drink a lot, but he doesn’t mind allowing his guard to fall a bit, since he has no secrets left to hide, and Andrew is always at his side to keep him from doing anything too stupid.

 

Now they’re home, and because Neil is feeling pleasantly buzzed, he has no qualms about trailing after Andrew into the same bedroom. Neil still doesn’t know how comfortable Andrew is with doing things like this when there’s alcohol in his system, but that’s probably because until tonight, Neil has never bothered to ask.

 

Andrew’s gait stutters for a brief second when he registers that Neil is in the room with him.

 

“Yes or no?” Neil asks. Looking at the tense line of Andrew’s shoulders, he’s fully prepared to turn around walk out to the couch.

 

Andrew turns and faces Neil, his eyes roaming over him and searching for—something. Neil guesses he’s looking for signs that Neil is still in control of himself. And he is, but the fact that Andrew has to find justification for himself that Neil wouldn’t cross his boundaries has Neil opening his mouth rescind the question.

 

Before he can, Andrew nods. “Yes.”

 

“I actually shouldn’t—” Neil starts to say, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.

 

“That’s why I’m saying yes,” Andrew cuts him off. “And if you ask me if I’m sure, I’ll change my answer to a no just to spite you.”

 

Neil clamps his mouth shut, moving to shuck off his jeans and yank on one of the pairs of sweatpants he has stashed at the house. By the time he’s done, Andrew has already changed and is lying on his side, back plastered against the wall. Neil climbs into the bed on the other side, lying on his side to face Andrew, leaving a decent amount of space between them.

 

They’re both exhausted, and Neil should close his eyes just like Andrew has, but instead he eschews that for watching Andrew.

 

“Staring,” Andrew mumbles. Neil knows the different (admittedly tiny) inflections of Andrew’s voice well enough to know that the accusation isn’t a _stop staring_ , but rather an expression of exasperation that has very little heat behind it.

 

Neil can’t help that the corners of his mouth quirk up in response. Beams of moonlight filter in between the slats of the partially closed blinds, falling on and softly illuminating Andrew’s face. His expression and body are relaxed—or something as close to relaxed as Andrew ever is. He looks a little bit younger without the ever-present weariness and guarded expression—he seems almost peaceful, and the alcohol in his blood means that Neil doesn’t filter out the words flitting across his mind before they exit his mouth.

 

“You’re so cute,” he says.

 

“That’s the alcohol talking,” Andrew replies flatly without opening his eyes.

 

Neil shakes his head in protest, before remembering that Andrew can’t see him. “No it’s not, I always think that. I just never say it,” he counters.

 

Andrew opens his eyes, and if weren’t for the low light likely playing tricks on him, Neil would think that Andrew was blushing slightly.

 

Andrew’s eyes rake over him for a long second before he responds. “You look good,” he says, then belatedly tacks “sometimes,” as if he couldn't bear to leave a statement that honest hanging out there without lessening its impact somewhat.

 

Not that it works, as Neil has to stop himself from inhaling sharply. If Andrew ever compliments him at all—which is something he rarely does—it’s always something backhanded, never straightforward. Not that Neil usually minds, especially when it comes to his appearance. More often than not Neil is dogged by the ghost of his father, seeing too much of the cruel man in his eyes or hair or smile to want anything remotely resembling a compliment.

 

Tonight though, the words cause a gentle warmth to spread through Neil’s chest. He beams at Andrew, though he doesn’t ask for a kiss—he’s already pushing Andrew too far out of his comfort zone to feel that such a question would be wanted.

 

The whole time they’ve been lying here, Neil’s hand has been resting limply, palm up on the mattress in the space between them. Much to his surprise, Andrew reaches out and rests his hand on top of Neil’s. He doesn’t curl his fingers around Neil’s hand, doesn’t do anything other than to leave his hand there to rest on top of Neil’s.

 

Andrew, contrary to Neil’s own expectations, has managed to surprise him twice in one night. It’s probably fair—Neil is owed many surprises, given the number of times he's managed to upset Andrew’s own perceptions of him—but it still settles heavily on Neil’s chest. This isn’t what Andrew does, this isn’t anything Neil would expect of him. He doesn’t need Andrew to compliment him, doesn’t need him to be the one to initiate contact. The fact that he is doing so, and is doing so of his own volition makes Neil’s heart beat a strange rhythm in his chest, giving expression to a feeling too large for Neil to dare an attempt at pinning down.

 

“Sleep, Neil,” Andrew says.

 

Neil does as he’s told, closing his eyes, the heat from Andrew’s hand comfortingly seeping into his own as he drifts off.

* * *

 

Because Andrew is a sophomore, by and large their classes don’t line up, save for one. Neil wants to say that they chose to take it together, but that wouldn’t exactly be the truth. Really, it was more that, when they were signing up for classes in May, Andrew had asked to see Neil’s proposed schedule (at the time, Neil still had a few days before he could register).

 

“Differential equations,” Andrew had pointed out matter-of-factly.

 

Neil had shrugged, and that was that. Neil didn’t think anything of it, until the first day of that class when Andrew followed him out when he left to walk to class.

 

So four days a week, they walk to class together, they sit together, and they occasionally get asked to leave class together (it’s mostly the professor’s fault—if he didn’t drone and act as if the class was the most boring thing in the world, then Andrew wouldn’t make biting, sarcastic comments that Neil bursts out into uncontrollable laughter over).

 

It adds another hour and a half spent together to their day, and Neil thinks that they should be hitting a tipping point, where they’re around each other too much and start annoying the hell out of each other, but it doesn’t happen. In fact, it still feels to Neil that they don’t spend _enough_ time together (it’s impossible to tell for sure if Andrew feels the same, but the fact that he doesn’t ever skip their class, despite the fact that he routinely skips others is definitely a sign).

 

Walking to class together is routine, and maybe even a little mundane as they always walk the same route, but every time Neil remembers that he has something that’s _routine_ , it sends a thrill up his spine. He’s never had a routine, mundane thing in his life, and there’s something strangely exciting about knowing that he can get up and do the same thing, every morning, four times a week, instead of waking up every day wondering if this will be the day that he has to run. He latches onto it, allowing the routine to be a reminder that he’s honestly _living_ , not merely surviving.

 

The class is early, running from 9 AM to 10 AM on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. After morning practice, Andrew drives them back to Fox Tower to drop off Aaron, Kevin, and Nicky. They normally head upstairs for a quick moment. Andrew grabs a cup of coffee (and flips Kevin off when he makes a comment about how much sugar Andrew dumps into it), and Neil grabs a bottle of water. Then they both set off for the math building. Most days, Andrew is still barely awake despite having had nearly three hours to wake up, so Neil walks quietly next to him as he grips his cup like a lifeline.

 

It’s always a quiet and companionable stroll through the sea of zombie-like students on their way to class, nearly all of them having just rolled out of bed. Neil doesn’t get how Andrew could be like them—after all, two and a half hours of Exy practice should be enough to drain the last dregs of sleep out of anyone—but he hardly minds. A barely awake Andrew is a less guarded and less blank Andrew, and Neil likes having some time to see Andrew like this, until the caffeine starts making it through his system and fully rousing him.

 

It pretty much goes without saying that they don’t hold hands while they walk. They’re not really the handholding type. On rare occasions, their hands up in the same place at the same time (like that night at the house in Columbia), but it’s never more than that. They don’t do more than rest their hands on top of each other—there’s never a curling or twining of fingers (with the exception of one memorable night on the roof of Fox Tower).

 

Of course, Neil would be telling a terrible, horrible lie if he said he didn’t think about it. Sometimes, when they walk, he glances down at the hand hanging limply at Andrew’s side, and wonders what it would be like if he casually reached over and grabbed it, what it would be like to have that point of contact anchoring them together as they shuffle to class. There are times when the thoughts turn into a nearly irresistible urge to reach down and curl his fingers around Andrew’s hand. But he always tamps down on it and does nothing.

 

A few times, Andrew happens to catch Neil when he’s glancing down at his hand. His expression doesn’t change (though that’s not saying much—Andrew’s expression rarely changes), he doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t react other than to cast a look in Neil’s direction. He’s normally able to read Andrew pretty clearly, but there’s something about the look he gets that he’s unable to parse. Maybe it’s because Andrew isn’t fully awake yet, or maybe it’s that Neil is too afraid to interpret it incorrectly, but whatever is there is too subtle (or maybe too obvious) for Neil to pick up on. It could be an invitation—or it could be warning.

 

He could just ask. They’ve always asked when one of them doesn’t know where the lines are, what’s acceptable and what’s going too far. But in the morning, when there’s still dew clinging to the grass and the sun is just starting to peek above the rooftops of the buildings dotting Palmetto State’s campus, there’s something about the world, something about the life that Neil’s managed to grab ahold of, something about him and Andrew and their _this_ that feels fragile. It feels like, if he were to dare do something to disturb the quiet, reverent feeling of the morning, it’ll all dissolve into dust and be blown away by the wind, leaving a musty hotel room or a dark, foreboding basement in its place.

 

Around the sixth or seventh time Andrew catches him staring at his hand (though it’s certainly not only the sixth or seventh time Neil has actually stared at his hand), Andrew huffs, and strangely, it looks like he’s been waiting for Neil to make the first move, but has finally run out of patience. “Fucking idiot,” he mutters under his breath, turning up his palm in a clear, explicit invitation.

 

Neil gawks silently at Andrew for a second. He shouldn’t be shocked by the times that Andrew makes the first move—after all, Andrew was the one who kissed him first and started all of _this_. But he is surprised, because when Andrew makes the first move, it’s not normally for something soft and intimate (though this is now the third time he has, so Neil considers that maybe it’s time to change that perception).

 

“You have five seconds Neil,” Andrew says, his voice firm enough to snap Neil out of his thoughts and draw his attention back to his upturned palm (though there is, as always, that constant note of boredom in it).

 

At the warning, Neil doesn’t hesitate, because now that the opportunity is presenting itself, he can’t deny the gnawing _want_ that’s taken up residence in his stomach. He so badly _wants_ to hold Andrew’s hand on the way to class, and has wanted to since the first day, if he’s willing to be honest with himself.

 

He reaches out, weaving their fingers together, curling his up to press gently against the back of Andrew’s hand. Andrew does the same, though he’s turned his head back so he’s looking straight ahead as he’s taking a sip of his coffee.

 

Neil, however, can’t resist the temptation to look down and see their hands twined together. At the sight, he feels heat starting to rise in his cheeks and his pulse quickens. Andrew eventually notices that Neil is staring at their hands, instead of watching where they’re walking, and he flicks Neil an impassive look. Neil futilely tries to duck his head and turn his face away so Andrew doesn’t see his blush.

 

“147%,” Andrew states simply.

 

Neil smiles in response.

 

(They hold hands until they sit down. Neil feels the ghost of Andrew’s hand on his the entire class.)

* * *

 

Both Neil and Andrew are light sleepers. It’s a consequence of the lives they’ve led. They’d both learned that they had to be ready to wake at any moment, because they never knew when danger would make its presence felt. The slightest sound, a change in the amount of light spilling into the room, sometimes even a breeze blowing over their bodies would be enough to jolt at least one (if not both) of them from their slumber.

 

So it’s no surprise that Neil wakes suddenly in the middle of the night. He tenses up, imagining himself in dank hotel room for the briefest of seconds before his eyes adjust to the darkness. When he sees that he’s in his room at Fox Tower, Andrew lying on his side just across from him, he relaxes back into the mattress. As soon as he does, he hears the sound that (apparently) woke him in the first place.

 

Another consequence of what’s happened to them in their lives is the nightmares. More times than Neil would like to or be able to count, his subconscious puts him back in the basement in Baltimore, or in the trunk of that car with Lola, or Riko’s room at Evermore. According to Andrew, Neil’s nightmares are never quiet. He talks back, he pleads, and sometimes he even goes so far as to thrash, fighting back against the demons of his past torturing him in his sleep.

 

Andrew’s nightmares, however, are the exact opposite. He lays, back against the wall, stock still as he faces Neil, something that’s no different from how he normally sleeps. There’s never any sound, never any movement. The only thing that Neil has ever been able to notice is that Andrew sometimes sweats when he has nightmares, but most times, in their dark room, Neil isn’t able to tell. Until Andrew wakes (and the subsequent change in his breathing pattern wakes Neil), Neil usually has no idea Andrew was having a nightmare at all.

 

Something about tonight is different though. Andrew is breathing heavily, whining softly and twitching in his sleep, all of which caused to wake Neil up in the first place. It’s not difficult to make the leap and say something about this nightmare is worse than usual.

 

Neil quickly weighs his options. Trying to wake Andrew up at any point during the night—let alone a nightmare—is a risky business. When Andrew wakes, he’s always tense, ready to lash out at any second, and when he’s waking from a nightmare, that is magnified by 100. And while he never actually lashes out at anyone, so long as you wake him up without touching him, Neil can’t predict what he’ll be like waking up from a worse than usual nightmare.

 

No matter how he manages to wake Andrew up (if he manages to wake him up at all), he might still earn a fist in his face, but Neil’s been on the receiving end of much worse. He’ll be fine, so long as he can get Andrew’s subconscious to stop tormenting him.

 

“Andrew?” Neil says softly, hoping his voice is loud enough to get through to Andrew, but soft enough not to startle him (and also soft enough to avoid drawing Kevin’s ire). “Andrew,” he repeats a littler louder when Andrew shows no signs of responding.

 

Andrew still doesn’t stir, so Neil tries for a third time. He’s loud enough this time that he does disturb Kevin, who rolls over and grumbles at him to shut the fuck up. Neil would flip him off and tell him to fuck off, but he’s too preoccupied with Andrew to do that.

 

Before he can make another attempt to get Andrew awake, Andrew’s eyes snap open. Moonlight reflects off them, and for the briefest of seconds, they’re filled with wild, unbridled fear and rage. Neil braces himself for the punch to land, but Andrew doesn’t seem to notice Neil is there at all, too busy curling in on himself and taking gasping, ragged breaths.

 

Neil rolls off the bed and takes a step back, having the good sense to realize that Andrew needs space. After a moment, when his breathing stops sounding so rough, Andrew reaches out and snatches up the pack of cigarettes he left on the nightstand before they went to bed. He rises to his feet, and he’s steady on them despite the fact that his body is trembling. He shoves his feet in his shoes, and Neil jerks his head toward the door. It’s a silent question to Andrew, asking him if he wants Neil to go up on the roof with him, or if he’d rather be left alone.

 

Andrew reaches out silently, gently grabbing Neil’s wrist in answer, pulling him along out of the room and up the stairs. It’s bit cold out on the roof, the chill of autumn gently biting into their skin. Andrew guides them to the edge, and they sit down, Neil releasing his wrist in favor of pulling a cigarette out of the pack with shaky fingers.

 

Neil fights the urge to shift uncomfortably. He’s seen Andrew lose control, but only when he allowed his anger to get the best of him. That’s familiar, that’s something Neil knows for sure how to handle. This, however, is Andrew unnerved and unsteady, and Neil hasn’t ever seen him like this before. He’s heard stories from the team about what Andrew was like when Neil disappeared to Baltimore. That Andrew wouldn’t stop shaking, wouldn’t stop fidgeting, that he had a look in his eye that said he wanted to tear the entire world apart, handful of dirt by handful of dirt, stone by stone, and brick by brick until he’d found Neil. What he’s seeing now is much, much less intense, but it’s still largely the same, and Neil can connect the dots.

 

“It was about me, wasn’t it?” Neil asks.

 

It’s a stupid question, as the answer seems more than obvious, and normally, when Neil asks a question that Andrew deems too stupid to answer directly, he gives Neil a sarcastic remark in the place of an answer (which usually happens to be an answer in and of itself). Tonight, Andrew is apparently too tired or too shaken to bother with that, settling for a nod of his head instead.

 

“Did I do—” Neil starts to ask, because the idea that dream Neil might cross Andrew’s boundaries and hurt him is horrifying, even if that’s something Neil has no control over.

 

“No,” Andrew answers flatly, and he manages to keep his voice steady even though his tremors haven’t quite stilled.

 

Neil sighs and runs a hand through his hair. With as much information as he has about Andrew’s past, he doesn’t need to be a genius to figure out the sorts of things Andrew dreams about. Neil has never been known for his great preservation instincts, but he has enough to realize that if the reason Andrew is so shaken wasn’t because of something he did, but still because of him, it’s better if he doesn’t know his exact role in Andrew’s dream. Even so, Neil feels the urge to apologize, but knows that would be unwelcome.

 

“I’m fine,” Neil tries to say, but the glance Andrew flicks his way stops him in his tracks. “I’m not hurt,” he settles for instead. “It was just a nightmare.”

 

“You _are_ a fucking nightmare,” Andrew replies.

 

Neil cocks his head to the side. With anyone else, that would certainly be an insult, but when Andrew says things like that about him, with more resignation in his voice than anything else, it means there’s something more to the words, something Andrew wants to avoid saying explicitly. Neil has always managed to be a bit dense at the worst times though.

 

“I don’t—”

 

“You always have to be a martyr, sticking out your goddamn neck when no one asked you to,” Andrew says, casually stubbing out the cigarette before tossing it off the roof. “How many times am I going to have to tell you that I’m not worth it?”

 

“Do you really want to know the answer?” Neil retorts.

 

Andrew apparently decides that he doesn’t, instead pulling out and lighting a second cigarette. His hands are finally steady, and Neil feels a bit of the tightly coiled tension in his chest unwind and he watches Andrew’s normal façade start to slide back into place, piece by piece.

 

“I told you it goes both ways,” Neil says, because he doesn’t know how to quit when he’s ahead. He snatches the cigarette from Andrew and takes a long draw before handing it back to him. “You have my back and I’ll have yours. The only way I’ll ever stop sticking my neck out for you is if I’m dead and six feet under.”

 

“At the rate you’re going, it won’t be long before that’s where you are.”

 

Neil shrugs, because Andrew has always taken an overly fatalistic view of his loyalty. Besides, “I should’ve been dead months ago. I’m living on time I shouldn’t have ever had in the first place, and I’ll be damned before I try to live it on any other terms besides my own.”

 

Andrew’s expression is back to being as blank as always when he turns to Neil after stubbing out his cigarette. “You’re going to be the death of both of us, Josten.”

 

Neil doesn’t raise any kind of protest, if only because Andrew is probably right. He settles for asking Andrew, “Ready to go back to bed?” instead.

 

In lieu of a verbal response, Andrew stands up and starts walking toward the door. Neil trails a few steps behind, mostly to allow Andrew time and space to dictate what he wants Neil to do. When they reach the bedroom, Andrew kicks off his shoes and plasters his back against the wall. He casts Neil a bored look, and that’s all the invitation Neil needs to crawl onto the bed next to him, lying on his side so they’re face to face like normal.

 

“Roll over,” Andrew instructs, and while that’s certainly unusual, Neil isn’t about to question or argue with Andrew. “Yes or no?” Andrew asks quietly once Neil moves, almost whispering in Neil’s ear.

 

“Yeah,” Neil answers, even though he’s not sure what Andrew intends to do.

 

As soon as he does answer, Andrew’s arms are wrapping around his middle, and one of Andrew’s legs slings over top both of Neil’s. Andrew presses his nose into the back of Neil’s neck, and Neil can’t help making a little, contented hum.

 

“216%,” Andrew mumbles at the noise.

 

“That’s a big jump,” Neil points out, somewhat facetiously.

 

“You’re being particularly annoying tonight,” Andrew replies. “Now shut up and go to sleep Abram, or I’m kicking you off the bed.”

 

Andrew is curled around him tightly (almost too tightly), just the way his mom used to. Neil would’ve thought that it would set his heart racing, that it would awaken the urge to run and make it impossible to sleep. But it doesn’t. Instead of the suffocating feeling a position like this used to give him, he feels safe, comfortable. Like Neil is _home_. It’s that thought that is the last one to run through his mind before he all too quickly succumbs to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> In the last part of the fic, where they're on the roof together, I make an implied reference to Andrew's past rape(s). It's fairly short, and it's not at all explicit.
> 
> Also I probably will do a part two to this? I have other ideas for this, I just need a) more time to develop them and b) also to get through my exams next week. So I'm posting what I have, and if all goes well, there will be more coming in a couple weeks :)


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